


Cuban Cigars

by fadinglove



Category: DCU
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Powers, College, M/M, art major hal, bruce has money, dork!clark, forensics major barry, model bruce, professor lance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-12 18:57:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10497447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadinglove/pseuds/fadinglove
Summary: Hal Jordan's an art major looking for the heart of his masterpiece. Bruce Wayne just happens to be the perfect model to draw.





	1. Noctis - Night

**Author's Note:**

> I've always wanted to do justice league high school/college au's and though this one is going to be a short fic, i'm _definitely_ revisiting the idea.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> modeled after American college

Hal Jordan is an art major. The thing about art majors is that they're always drinking coffee, stressed, and searching for inspiration.

He sets his coffee cup down and twirls his graphite pencil with a menacing expression. Professor Lance, for all he cared, could take her inspiration and feel-good words of "deep thought" and shove them up her-

"Pissy about your project again?" A blur of movement lands with a skid next to his well-earned spot on a public bench, and he looks up reluctantly.

"It counts for, like, half of my semester grade," Hal moans for the umpteenth time this week, letting his sketch pad fall to the ground as he puts his head in his hands. "And I've got no fucking ideas whatsoever, because this shithole of a yard is only full of stoners and cult worshippers, neither of which give me any kind of inspiration."

"I thought you were supposed to capture something dark and mysterious," Barry reminds helpfully. "Stoners and cult worshippers are dark and mysterious."

In response, Hal pinches the bridge of his nose with two fingers and sighs. Barry kneels down to pick up the pad and set it down next to the hopeless artist.

"Thanks, Bar," he mumbles. "But I still don't know what to do."

"I need to get to class in-" Allen looks down at his watch. So old-fashioned. "- _now._ But I promise I will give you tons of inspiration, like Lance said, and dig you out of this artist's block."

"Artist's block? That's a thing?" Hal frowns.

"See you!" And the forensics major is gone, dashing away like some enthusiastic, optimistic gazelle. Hal marvels, for a second, at his speed, which has never dwindled in all the years he has known him.

He stands up. Maybe if he walked around a bit, explored places on campus beyond this, he'd find something worthwhile. "College is too hard," he grumbles to himself, wandering away from the eccentric crowd.

* * *

"Wait, but how will I- ugh, why is this so hard? Holy shit," Clark Kent adjusts his prescription glasses and fumbles around for his schedule, precariously balancing a horde of books between one arm and his chest. "Oops, sorry for cursing, I'm just-" He stumbles and regains footing- "under duress."

"You'll get the hang of it." Bruce Wayne stands leaning against the door wall, looking impeccable as always in a three-piece suit, smoking an old-fashioned cigar- a _cigar,_ for Christ's sake. He's something out of a movie, and has apparently been waiting all this time to let his friend gather himself. "Hopefully."

"I know what you're wondering," Oliver Queen prods Clark from behind. "It's, 'Does Brucie wear a new, fancy suit that probably costs more than your tuition, to class everyday?'" The blonde, only clad in a green jacket and jeans in comparison, pauses for dramatic effect. "The answer is, yes. He's a brat."

"I can hear you," Bruce calls from the front, smoke trailing behind him.

"It's true, though." Oliver shrugs. "Are you even allowed to smoke on campus? All that shit is going straight to your brain, I swear. Your IQ's gonna drop a couple points if you keep this up."

"Guys," Clark takes a deep breath. "I am totally and utterly grateful that you've decided to take me under your... wings, but you both have a ton of money and smarts and seem to have gotten 'the hang' of this as soon as you came. I've never even seen you... study, or anything, now that I think about it."

It was true. Oliver only ever attended wild frat parties, finding new girls to hang off his arm, and Bruce just walked around looking disinterested in everything, though he occasionally joins Queen in the hunt for sexual partners, although Clark thinks that's mostly for show. But they're both just so laid-back and effortlessly successful. Clark wonders if it's a quality all rich people share.

"You," Bruce points directly at him with his cigar, "will be fine," and then he turns the corner of a medieval looking garden pathway.

Clark doubts it.

* * *

Circling the campus several times, Hal isn't sure what area he ends up in (as a freshie, he still doesn't know where everything is) when he spots his future.

It just appears, really. Or rather, _he_ appears: a young man clad in an expensive suit, smoking a cigar without a care in the world. As Hal watches, he turns to the nearest ash tray and discards of it, letting it burn out on its own. His face is shockingly handsome.

Mentally, Jordan reviews the criteria for his project. Mysterious? Yes. Attention-grabbing? Yes. Dark? _Yes._

Scrambling furiously for his pencil, Hal flips his pad to a new page and begins drawing a crude rough draft of the man- his angular face, the inky black hair, his suit, and even the cigar. He pays careful attention to the natural shadows the man just seems to blend into.

For about five minutes, he wonders who this guy is. He doesn't seem old enough to be a professor, but what kind of college student would have such extravagance-

And halfway through the drawing, it hits him. Hal stares at the rough black lines scribbled out on the page, overlapping this and that way over lighter pencil sketches, forming the features of a face, and the heavy lines of the suit. The face is awfully familiar, and he knows why.

That guy is Bruce Wayne. _The_ Bruce Wayne. Hal may not pay close attention (or any attention at all) to celebrity gossip, but even he knows the billionaires in his area. It's all he can do to keep his jaw from dropping open. And it's also all he can do to not shit his pants when a voice rasps behind him, "The cigar's a little off."

He slowly turns around, right into the face he had been studiously drawing from afar. The cheekbones are high and elegantly cut, hair cut short, and eyes a pale grayish-blue. "What?"

"The cigar. It's off. The model is more cylindrical and rounded at the corners, not pointed. It's Cuban, I believe."

He talks with deadly precision, as if every word is planned in advance. There's a formality and extremely faint accent (British, maybe?) to his words. Whatever Hal was expecting (maybe a brainless socialite with a penchant for sex), this was not it.

"I know," Hal only replies. "I'm changing the model to my liking, because my weird but hot professor doesn't like Cuban cigars for some reason. It's like, she wants us to paint something moody and dark but she can't stand the sight of a prospective blunt."

"Dinah? Miss Lance?" Bruce tilts his head slightly. "Ah, I'm afraid that might be my fault. I gave her an unfortunate experience with my cigars." He pauses. "Did you just say, something 'moody and dark'? Did I look to be the perfect model for those things?"

"Wait," Hal says, "You smoke Cuban cigars with my art professor? And yes, you're a perfect model for those things, look at you. Smoking your cigars and brooding by the ash trays. Can't you just imagine the artwork already? And can't you put in a good word or two for me with your friend, uh, Dinah?"

"Dinah ceased to be my friend after the cigar incident."

Hal laughs disbelievingly. "I had no idea you even went to this school."

"Few people know," Bruce raises one eyebrow, "As it was only in the news for months beforehand, featured in almost every domestically popular magazine, and I was interviewed on three nationally watched talk shows. As if I couldn't handle college."

Hal tries not to blush. "I don't... keep up on that kind of news. At all. But I do know who you are. And your friend, the rich one, what's his name? From Starling. Oscar, Oliver, something like that?"

As if one cue, two more people step through the stone archways. One is a tall, muscled kid with round glasses, who looks like the split divide between vulnerable and tough, and the other-

"Oliver Queen. Right." Hal pinches the bridge of his nose. "Don't tell me he goes here, too."

Oliver gestures at Bruce to come over, and Bruce waves a dismissive hand in return, like, _Give me a minute._

"He does, unfortunately." Bruce looks a mix between exasperated and affectionate. "I'm afraid I have to leave soon, to show Clark around. It's been a good talk, however."

"Wait." Hal blurts it out before he can stop himself. "Will you actually model for me? For my project? I know your schedule must be packed, but I really need a good grade on this, and I think you'd be a perfect painting." He bites his lip. "If it's not too much, obviously."

A momentary pause.

"My schedule's not packed."

"What?"

"I said, my schedule's not packed."

Hal lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "Wow. Great. So I guess that means you can-" He pauses and trails off, when he realizes Bruce isn't standing behind him anymore. He looks up to see the billionaire on the other side of the room, walking behind Oliver and the other dude, out of the walkway.

"What the hell," he mutters to himself, but when he looks up, Bruce throws a wink and smirk at him before leaving. Hal only shrugs, rejoiced at the prospect of salvaging his project.


	2. Noctem - Nightfall

Bruce wasn't quite sure why he'd started a conversation with the fellow student, but there was something open, honest, and stubborn about his demeanor. His tousled brown hair and warm eyes look to have been created just to put people at ease, his obliviousness to his identity was endearing, and his drawings were really very... beautiful. Bruce didn't exactly pore over portraits of himself in his spare time, contrary to which every gossip magazine believed, but he appreciated a fine hand when he saw it.

And he'd admired the handiwork. Not because it was of him, per se, but more the lines and structure of his face and body- it all looked very realistic.

Bruce didn't let himself get lost in freeform things like art, often.

"Who were you talking to?" Clark folds his schedule up and sticks it in his back pocket, apparently having given up trying to decipher it.

"I didn't catch his name," Bruce replies. "He was drawing me, though. I said I'd model for him."

"Woah, what? Bruce Wayne doing things for other people? Out of _kindness?"_ Oliver fakes a shocked expression. "Just imagine the news headlines, right now."

"You have yet to follow Bruce in this path of kindness, Oliver," says a voice from behind all three of them. The boys turn. "I mean, all you do is engage in excessive festivities and drink alcohol. How haven't you been expelled yet?"

"Diana," Bruce smiles faintly, and greets her with a kiss on the cheek. Clark tries not to gape at this being of literal feminine perfection- long, swept-back black hair, piercing blue eyes, and a fierceness to her stance. And the way she expertly backhanded Queen. He feels himself falling in love. "Always rescuing me."

"Who's this?" She looks right at Clark. He moves his mouth to try and form words, but it's not working.

"Don't worry," Oliver pats him on the back. "Most men fall prey to Diana's intimidating and blazing glory." He turns to her. "This is Clark Kent, from the unknown island of Smallville, Kansas, who is harmless when not angry. Almost pitiful. He's like a golden retriever."

Clark shoots him an irritated look, and reaches out a hand. She accepts it thoughtfully. "Nice to meet you, Diana."

"You as well." Diana returns. "I respect any man who can tolerate Oliver without resorting to blows."

"Actually, this one time-" Oliver begins, but she expertly cuts him off. "Back to the topic at hand, when I was eavesdropping," she says. "Bruce, you agreed to model for a student whose name you don't know for a project you don't have without scheduling a time and place?" Her brow furrows ever so slightly in confusion.

A shrug. "I'll find him."

"Yeah, he'll find him," Clark echoes. "He's Bruce Wayne."

* * *

Bruce does find him, the next day, staring off into the distance in the courtyard usually reserved for stoners and cultists.

The brunet looks up with an expression of immense relief. "Oh, thank God. I was just having an existential crisis, because I realized during our meeting that I never gave you a time, place, or my fucking name, and I was like, this is the end, this is where I flunk and drop out of college. But somehow you tracked me down." His gaze turns suspicious. "How did you find me, anyway? Did you just assume I hung out with stoners and cultists?" A pause. "Because, actually, I'd assume that, too."

For some reason, Bruce doesn't really mind the rambling. It's amusing. "I asked Barry where you were. I know him."

"What?!" An expression of shock. "Barry Allen knows _you?_ He's never told me that!" Actually, that might be a lie. He could remember once or twice or ten times, where Bruce Wayne had been a topic of discussion, but he waved his friend away dismissively. Yeah. Hal marvels at the idea of puppy-like, eager Barry hanging out with stoic, silent Bruce. Weird.

"I don't recall how I first met him, but I do remember he irritated me immensely at first, but I got used to it." Those blue eyes suddenly fixate on him. "But enough about me. I realized I never got your name, yesterday."

"Oh. Oh, yeah. I go by Hal. Hal Jordan. I'm an art major, but I'm also into airplanes and flying and astronomy and stuff."

"Two very different fields."

"Yeah, well," he shrugs. "I'm a special little snowflake. Now, how much time do you have? And how long can you keep still?"

"A lot. And very long," Bruce says in response. Hal grins.

* * *

The next week turns into a sort of routine. Bruce meets up with Hal in the same courtyard, and then they pleasantly stroll to Hal's favorite studio on campus, which also happens to be empty at the early time they get going. It's a quiet and peaceful environment with an abundance of potted plants and geometric succulents on every shelf or hanging across walls, with a huge octagonal skylight above.

The place is well-lit and a window or two is always popped open for fresh air. But Hal works with the natural shadows of the room, and they frequent a corner of darkness almost daily. He positions Bruce sideways, tilted slightly towards him, puffing his cigar without a care in the world. The posture is closed-off, but the gestures are bright, and the result is something beautifully mysterious and enigmatic but still blazing and offering a taste.

It's perfect.

"How should I pose?" Bruce had asked on their first trip, and the artist had replied with, "Just naturally. You always look like you've come straight out of a movie, anyway. Has anyone ever told you that?"

Many people had told Bruce that, but he never really understood what it meant. He wasn't even sure if it was a compliment or an insult. But when Hal said it, with curious and intelligent eyes, one corner of his mouth quirking up, it seemed like the greatest honor in the world.

Bruce tries, without a doubt, to figure out Hal Jordan. It's rare because usually other people are the ones trying to figure him out, and most beings, to him, are easy egg shells that just require a crack or two to spill.

Some, though, are adamant. And the yolk doesn't drizzle out because there is no yolk. There's just another golden egg inside. He thinks of Clark, Oliver, Diana, even Dinah, and how there's nothing inside them except for brilliance and gold.

But Hal- he's so energetic, always rambling on and cursing, hounding other students for more coffee, and telling him about the stars. But when Bruce sneaks a peek at the canvas occasionally, it takes his breath away, and he knows Hal isn't a slacker. He's a hard worker. He just doesn't seem like one.

As the weeks fly by, Clark becomes more adjusted to the college life while drooling over Diana, Diana continues strutting perfectly through every problem, Oliver obtains less booze and more girls, while Dinah shakes her head at the whole lot of them. For the first time since he's been admitted into this prestigious school, Bruce feels like he has opportunities to relax and feel a sense of peace that overtakes him beautifully- especially when he's with Hal.

* * *

"Angle your face more into the shadows- just captures it perfectly, it's so natural, how-" Hal uses a gentle hand to tilt Bruce's head this way and that, shifting his positions to get a perfectly modelled pose. "Yeah, Bruce, perfect- like that." His fingers are firm and warm against Bruce's jaw. "Perfect."

"Perfect?" Bruce inquires quietly, smirking. Hal blinks, as if just realizing their closeness.

"Perfect," he says slowly.

Bruce knows, leaning in to meet Hal's lips with his own, that his idea of perfection is reflected in the stars of his own eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize profusely for taking so long to update- I've been on break and haven't had time. but i'm back, so please stick around for this trilogy!


	3. Aurora - Dawn

"Wait." Hal pulls back, eyes wide, lips already red, an expression of shock on his face. Bruce wonders if he's done something wrong, made a mistake, or just read all the signs wrong. He opens his mouth to apologize, when-

"I'm kissing _Bruce Wayne,_ " Hal continues, the corners of his lips quirking up in a smile, and all thoughts flee from Bruce's mind, flocking away in a tangled mess. There is just nothingness, and then Hal Jordan.

He kisses the artist hard and strong, hands entwining in the honey-brown hair.

* * *

The exhibit is beautiful.

There's no museum on campus, yet the students have worked hard to create a clean, modern space to display their works, and it's successful. With a small budget and limited resources, it's impressive how professional the event looks.

Of course, Bruce only has a mere glance to admire this set-up, because everything in the room falls away until just two subjects are existent and glowing in the dim lights.

The first is Hal Jordan. Bruce has never felt such sudden and spontaneous love like this before, but it's a blazing wildfire of joy and need that fills him every time he catches sight of the artist. He sees stars in his eyes and cosmos in his hair, and when their lips meet it's like a black hole is threatening to swallow him whole, so he would lose himself in Hal forever.

The next is what's behind Hal. The finished masterpiece.

Bruce calls it a masterpiece because that's simply what it is, and he knows that as a fact like the sky is blue and grass is green. It's large and adorned with a simple black frame and the entire piece is composed of startling shades of black, white, and subtle blue.

If it were music, the song would be a quiet but powerfully orchestrated tune, revealing shades of agony and beauty within the quiet folds of its whole symphony.

But it's not music. It's paint. Strong, broad brush strokes to capture the thick lines of Bruce's coat, his sleeves, his pants, and the ground beneath his feet. Delicate and thin strokes to draw the lines of his face, his eyes, and the cigar. Bruce Wayne sees himself standing tall and smoking, but all he can really see are Hal's hands drawing this, painting them, with his long, careful fingers.

And in the bottom, a small inscription of "H. Jordan" is scrawled alongside the art.

Bruce returns to reality. He notices Hal's expression, one of anxiety braced with a nervous smile. He also notices the sheer number of people crowded around the painting, admiring the work.

Slowly, Bruce works his way through the crowd to Hal.

"...strong lines..."

"...such beautiful portrayal...shadows, blending..."

"...the model? What kind of cigar..."

"Hal," Bruce whispers as he approaches him. "Hal, it's beautiful."

"Well." Hal's nervous grin turns into a radiant smile, and it transforms his entire face into something even more brilliant, and Bruce wonders when he became so smitten. "You're beautiful."

For the first time, Bruce is speechless. He only gazes in awe of the painting.

It shows enough of his face that a close friend might recognize him, but his features are skillfully blurred so as not to give him away. He looks down at the card pasted to the wall alongside it. It reads:

                                **_Umbra - Shadows_**

                                           _Harold Jordan_

"It's... breathtaking, Hal." He turns.

"It's all for you," Hal says, and Bruce embraces him with tightness and finality.

* * *

"You know," Hal mutters, "I fell in love with you the moment I saw you. You're stunning, and witty, and not like anything everyone says."

Bruce takes in the lean muscle of Hal's body, his beautiful hair, the form of him carved like a Greek god. Lust and desire ache in him, threaten to tear him in two, yet he's still content with just watching. Staring hungrily and lazily like a predator about to pounce.

"Those are all exactly what everyone says about me," Bruce replies.

"You smartass, you," Hal laughs, pure and high. A lovely, melodic sound. Bruce hopes Hal's light will forever burn in his shadow.


End file.
